Prompt Post 1

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At least one of the characters in your prompt must have been in Captain America: The First Avenger or Captain America: The Winter Soldier.

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Update, April 22, 2014:
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Non-Critical Malfunction (1/?)

[(Anonymous)]

The asset sits on a bench of brushed steel, one more piece of malfunctioning equipment in a long line of them.

To his left is a rotary actuator; to his right, a disassembled prototype rifle. The asset is marked with the same tag as each of them, a square of paper with clipped corners, attached with a length of black wire. "Deficiency report," the tag reads, and notes a priority level: mission capable, non-critical malfunction.

The asset waits as a mechanic in grey coveralls wanders into the room. The man's hair is dark and unkempt; his face is shaded with two days' growth of beard. The tag on his pocket reads "Graves," and he spares the asset a lingering glance as he retrieves the rifle – priority: non-mission capable, safety and design deficiencies. The man checks his tag, then passes him over for equipment farther down the line.

The gun goes before him; a small robot; a miniature helicopter with cloaking capabilities. By the time the man circles back around to approach, screwdriver in one hand, the asset's legs have begun to cramp from waiting so long in one position. The clock on the wall shows that five hours have passed.

Graves examines the tag again, and he lifts the asset's left arm to peer closely at the metal plating. "What's the problem?" he asks.

"An abnormality in the pelvic region," the asset replies – and then quirks an eyebrow, lowers the arm back to rest against the asset's side.

"Come on," Graves says. "I'm gonna need more than that." He flicks his finger against the tag, accusatory. "Some asshole didn't finish your paperwork."

"Periodic sensitivity and swelling," the asset elaborates, and does not look at the man's face. "At the juncture between the legs."

There is silence.

It stretches so long that the asset lifts his eyes, wary, to gauge the man's expression. Graves' eyes are wide, mouth slightly ajar. "You're shitting me," he tells the asset. "Right?"

The asset does not reply. Spending time in frivolous pursuits is not allowed. To take the time of a professional beyond necessary maintenance would garner the appropriate punishment. Surely the mechanic knows this already.

"You're not," the man says, at last, when the asset offers no reply. "Holy shit." And then he tips his head back and he laughs. He laughs until he's gasping for breath, until the asset's face has grown unaccountably warm.

"Okay," says Graves, when he manages to slow at last. He wipes at his eyes with the side of one hand, where his laughter has caused small beads of moisture to form. "Okay. Let's see the problem area."

The mechanic's grin is wide and crooked, and the asset is very aware of his stare as he slides from the table to stand. The swelling has abated during the wait, but it returns now, sharp and sudden, as soon as his own fingers touch the buckles on his combat gear. By the time he has them undone, the flesh between his legs has thickened to a noticeable protrusion, bringing with it a low, persistent ache.

The asset slides his combat gear down over his hips to display the swollen flesh, but Graves says, "Keep going," so he unlaces his boots and steps out of them, removes his pants and folds them to set on the workbench. Between his legs, the abnormality twitches and then falls still.

"Is the condition recurring?" Graves asks, serious tone belied by the way his eyes glimmer. The man seems on the verge of laughter again, but the asset does not know why. One of the man's thick hands reaches out to examine the afflicted area.

The asset gasps. The protrusion is tender, and contact with the man's fingers makes him lurch into the touch, uncharacteristically clumsy.

"Keep still," Graves admonishes, and it takes the asset a moment longer than usual to comply – longer still to recall that he's been asked a question. Such lapses are not tolerated, the asset reminds himself forcefully. "It occurs periodically," he manages. It takes effort to form the words.

The asset could supply more information.

He could tell the man that it occurs most frequently in the morning, when he wakes from images of blonde hair and hands that do not hurt. He could explain that is has grown worse with every passing day since the mission delay first landed them in this facility – that finally, yesterday, when three of his strike team returned from a workout stripped to the waist, it persisted for nearly two hours. He could admit that this morning had been the worst of all – waking on his thin floor pallet soaked in sweat, heartbeat hard in his throat and a name he didn’t remember caught at the back of his mouth.

The asset could say these things, but he does not. He is wiped clean, but his handlers allow him to keep some things: his training, his lessons, the consequences. He knows what will come if he displays too much awareness.

And so the asset keeps his mouth closed as Graves touches him lightly, searching for the malfunction's cause. The asset cannot recall a touch like this one – not ever. The heat in his swollen flesh is compounded by something greater, some unidentifiable lack bound up in those nightly images of a man he does not know.

Graves makes a thorough examination. He uses the very tips of his fingers to search the place where the swollen flesh connects to the rest of the asset's body, and he traces every millimeter of the abnormality, not once but many times. The asset digs short, blunt nails into the palm of his right hand and forces himself to remain in place.

"I'll need to take some measurements," Graves tells him – and, inspection concluded, at last removes his hand.

The asset cannot contain the gasp that leaves him. He keeps his hips in place by only the narrowest of margins.